


Boys of Summer

by SugarTeddi



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 06 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 03:32:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6406951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarTeddi/pseuds/SugarTeddi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Maybe life was just a series of similar events that people through the ages had to venture through. If Thomas had been sitting in the local public house with a pint in his hand, he would've snorted. He would then take a soothing gulp, stare at the table and gradually lose the amused tilt of his lips. He remembered the ache, the pain of his heart and the heaviness–</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"Master George," he began, since the silence had stretched on longer than he intended, "you can't control someone else's feelings."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boys of Summer

As he watched the gravel road before him, chequered with undulating shapes of light and shadow, he wondered briefly how long it had been since his step had ever felt so light and untroubled. The capricious shade was a welcome reprieve from the enveloping heat of summer. The trees on either side of the road whispered their united greeting to the breeze. The sun directed its hot gaze on him from its highest arc and he acquiesced to opening the buttons of his light summer suit jacket for the second time that day.

It was one of the things he had been privately adamant about when he first assumed Carson's duties. He had never understood why the former butler, along with Mrs. Patmore, placed so little value on having personal time away from the Abbey. Perhaps he had initially feared that the pressure of elevated responsibility would sway him to subconsciously replicate the peculiar mannerisms of his seniors – which wasn't to say that he would exclude all similarity.

He had respected Carson, in his own way. In the end, the steely-eyebrowed man would remain as one the most influential figures in Thomas's life. Their relationship had been tempestuous in its didactiveness, but it had still remained oddly fruitful. They’d never voiced their mutual thoughts on the matter, but Thomas remembered hearing once the subdued voice of Mrs. Hughes dubbing him as _Mr. Carson's wayward apprentice_ while engaging tea with Mrs. Patmore. However, the general disposition of their relationship had often been unjust, maybe because Carson never fully pardoned him for one of his characteristics. The characteristic that was meaningless, and yet it had blotted a mark of apparent significance on Thomas’s _whole life_.

As he felt the remote urge to slide his fingers to his inside breast pocket, he was reminded of how much had changed in virtually no time at all. But then again brief, inconsistent things were bound to – people, fashion, and feelings – while in the distance the great house of Downton Abbey sat still like a slumbering giant on its sward rug, heedless to the concept of change.

Almost as if in whimsical protest to the rigidness of the architecture, he opted to take the longer road to the servants' courtyard and followed the path that lead around the pond. He wasn't in a great hurry for once. The trimmed lawns seemed to beckon him onward, the vastness cradling the azure of the sky fittingly. He came to a clearing where Master George and his friends had played badminton a few days ago. No evidence had been left behind – the house had its staff, after all, although now only a portion of the extent of 1910s; a time, which he remembered too vividly for his own good. 

The Etonian party of five had spent the last fortnight playing every imaginable and achievable outside sport possible. Judging by the discussion at the other end of the servants’ table, the younger staff members were still debating how the scales had tipped. The _youthful atmosphere_ set by their visitors didn’t amount to much, if every afternoon had to be spent collecting various sporting equipment and service items all over the grounds.

He had just begun to wonder what the upstairs youngsters had settled on doing today in his absence. He was brought short when he noticed activity in the folly he was about to walk past. He redirected his steps to ensure discreetly that the illuminous stone creation wasn't occupied by trespassers of the unauthorized sort. A month ago Lady Mary had chanced upon a camp of gypsies in the nearby woods during her daily rounds around the grounds. The incident itself was concluded in the most tactful and pragmatic manner, but it had left in its wake an odd, inoffensive quip that popped up in conversations on all floors of the house. He was pleasantly surprised by the emerging solidarity due to prosaic humour, but then he reasoned that all great houses contained a vortex – conceived by centuries of repression, conceit, and etiquette, no doubt – that could be sated in appetite only by meaty bits of the unconventional, no matter how trivial.

He recognized by attire alone that the visitors in the folly were part of Master George's peer group. Thomas was just about to continue swiftly along his original path, but then several things happened as if bound by peculiar synchronization. He observed from the corner of his eyes that there were only two people present, and their proximity implied that sentiments from the vermilion end of the human emotional palette were at stake. As if startled by his silent observation, the other individual took off, jogging across the lawn. The remaining person turned and watched amongst the mute stone pillars how his late companion made his way back to the house.

The ivory of Master George's shirt stood in subtle contrast to the unforgiving background that had only been subdued by weather. One didn't need to be a connoisseur of the male aesthetic to remark that the son of Lady Mary and Mr. Crawley made a handsome figure. Thomas bemoaned his tardiness. He should've resumed his walk to the servants' courtyard the minute he had verified that all was well in the folly. Maybe the underlying curiosity of trying to comprehend the situation promptly – the way that his line of work had always required of him – kept him standing where he was, or perhaps the sun had overheated the parts of his brain responsible for producing logical behaviour.

"Ah, Barrow!" Master George regarded him with a slightly subdued look, while the voice was warm and steady. Thomas gave his verbal acknowledgment accompanied with a small, but sincere, smile.

"Glad to see that I'm not the only one that prefers to spend the day outside. The others wanted a day off from sports, but I think the inferiority of losing too many games took its toll." The young man's chuckle was paired with a twinkling eye and Thomas couldn't help mirroring him. George had clearly inherited the competitiveness from his mother, while the easy rapport he could engage with anyone – regardless of their social standing – was reminiscent of his late father.

"Sometimes a good game is entertaining whether you win or lose, Master George." Thomas knew well the boundaries of their friendship, and rarely added the vocal plea of begging George's pardon for his impertinence. After all, Thomas had always been the one to supervise that their camaraderie hovered on a formal level, although George had tested his conviction relentlessly in the past. The way George addressed him now was a recent development – as if the young man had made a mischievous discovery of how to sound formal and _enjoy it_ , while being anything but. It was endearing as well as maddening. Something that all upper class people had to learn, but the level of commitment varied from lord to lord. Thomas didn't dare to think that the 8th Earl of Grantham could’ve adopted parlance from a servant, no matter how attached the boy had been to him in the past.

George didn't look at him, but his gaze grew restless at the last comment. Self-doubt pestered Thomas; he was now unsure, whether he had used the correct form of address, or if George was distracted by something else. It was agreed that the young Earl would be called ‘Master George’ at Downton until he came of age. Lady Mary had been adamant about giving her son a few years to prepare for his responsibilities. She deemed it better to set a fixed date to the future, accompanied with proper celebration, than passing the hereditary peerage to the underage heir in haste, while the family was still in tears. Thomas was now convinced that the young man was distracted by something else. George seemed to lack a proper response and settled for: "Yes, with some games." George ambled down the steps of the folly, and turned to Thomas, "Walk with me, Barrow. You were going back to the house, right?"

"Yes, Master George." Thomas was soon at his side and they fell into an unhurried stride with each other. The great trees provided salvific shade before the sun sought the two men out at the end of treeline.

Thomas knew there was something on George's mind, since regardless of the hot summer day he had never been in the habit of keeping his comfortable silences this prolonged. The warmth of the sun embraced Thomas's face and he closed his eyes briefly. He was assured that George remembered that he could always confide in Thomas, whatever the predicament. Thomas recalled the first time George reminded him of his vow. George had been 7-years-old when he had found Sybbie’s bicycle. Unbeknownst to anyone, he had taken the bicycle for a spin with unfavourable results. _You said that you would always be my friend, Mr Barrow! What should I do?_

The question caught Thomas by surprise, as if George was an ageless figure – not the child of the past or the adult of the present, but a timid voice full of uncertainty–, "how do you stop someone from loving you, Barrow?"

So that was it then, the hasty escape made by George's friend. Thomas felt accomplished, like he had accidentally completed a tedious crossword without keeping score on how many squares still lacked a letter, but his smooth expression was soon replaced by a frown. It was a foreign feeling to think that George had something _so profound_ in common with him. Wariness began to set in. George knew about him, of course, but Thomas had never picked up any signs that George had an eye for muscled bodies, prickly jaws, or deep timbres. Takes one to know one, right? The situation was wholly unsettling.

But there was something equally unsettling about George's question. "You don't return the sentiment then, Master George?" Thomas ventured. He needed confirmation to ground himself first in case new shocks were forthcoming. Considering all the discussions they'd had in the past – driving Thomas to the very end of his wit and the limit of controlling the colour on his cheeks – this was probably the most unexpected one.

"That's just it, Barrow," George continued. "I do, but not in the way that–" the young man paused, " _he_ expects. Of course I care a lot about my best friend and I accept him the way he is – how could I not – but not in a similar extent." There wasn't a hint of embarrassment on George's face, but controlled agitation and sadness. The subtle lines between George's light-coloured brows disappeared and he added soberly, "I don't want to lose him. Not over something like this."

Their pace was languid. The dry grass didn’t provide enough friction under their leather soles. Thomas glanced at George and saw that he had turned his head to the side, looking at something in the distance, the insufficient wind lifting the topmost strands of George's short light hair. A heavy feeling settled into Thomas' chest. He was reminded of another young man that had wavy hair in the colour of the ripest wheat field in August. A young man that had cherished Thomas's friendship above any priced possession that he may’ve had. A man that had drawn a line between them with his finger, and recited a vow – like a child enunciating a memorized evening prayer – to never cross it.

Maybe life was just a series of similar events that people through the ages had to venture through. If Thomas had been sitting in the local public house with a pint in his hand, he would've snorted. He would then take a soothing gulp, stare at the table and gradually lose the amused tilt of his lips. He remembered the ache, the pain of his heart and the heaviness–

"Master George," he began, since the silence had stretched on longer than he intended, "you can't control someone else's feelings." For a moment an absurd feeling crept to the back of his neck that he was impersonating someone tediously teacher-like from his past. In a similar situation where his role was reversed, he could hazily remember his own feelings of exasperation, veiled amusement and embarrassment. The recollection made him feel old – not in a maudlin sort of way, but in the way that fed his resolve with solemn acceptance. He glanced at George's direction and failed to decipher the look that had befallen the young man's face. No wonder, since his valet training was currently busy deciphering the consistency of a small reddish stain encircled by a pale substance just under George’s collarbone. He added a mental note to mention it discreetly after their discussion was concluded. Thomas's fingers itched yet again with muscle memory, but he redirected the digits into tugging the hem of his vest instead. Suddenly frustrated with the onslaught of considerations, memories and past addictions, he added on top of an exhale, "The only feelings you can dab at are your own."

George looked at him in such rapt earnestness that Thomas couldn't help but feel emboldened enough to continue. "I hope I'm not out of line for saying so, Master George, but in my experience the least amount of damage is done when one stays true to his feelings. Pity and deliberate avoidance are as redundant as giving false hope. It will be–" Thomas ran his tongue along the lower lip of his closed mouth to find the right word, even _tasting_ it to verify that it was appropriate to utter aloud in this company, "painful, until the scenery changes, but honesty heals wounds faster than its counterpart."

He felt lightheaded and was fairly certain that the weather had got to him. George stopped and Thomas nearly staggered when he tried to halt his steps abruptly. The library windows of Downton Abbey glared at them brightly in the afternoon sun and Thomas turned his head as much as he dared to face the opposite direction, while keeping the rest of his body in line with his companion.

"I think I understand what you mean, Barrow," George broke the comfortable silence. "I conclude that you must have paid a heavy price for the acquired knowledge to impart me with such a valuable piece of advice." The young man's voice was sincere in its sympathy without an ounce of upper-class belittlement. "I'm very sorry, Barrow."

"It's alright, Master George," Thomas replied with the familiar, outwardly pleased tilt on his lips, "one should never underestimate what the passing of time can induce."

George nodded, as if coming to a resolution of his own and pushing the agitation aside that Thomas had witnessed at the folly. "Thank you, Barrow," George smiled, before the young man turned and went in through the French doors of the library.

Thomas continued walking around the house to his original destination and idly wondered whether Mrs. Parker's new batch of ice cream was ready yet. It would cool his head nicely after the day he had had. However – although no-one would bat an eyelash at a footman having a quick taste of surplus sugary confections – it wouldn't do in a house like Downton to see the butler sneaking around the kitchens and polishing off the remnants of Mrs. Parker's delicacies. Thankfully their camaraderie was so in tune after working together for – too many decades by now, surely – that Mrs Parker seemed to know without a word when to bring an inconspicuous tray into his office.

He walked through the back door and continued down the corridor. Downton was surprisingly cool during the summer due to its thick walls, but the servants’ quarters were another story. The heart of the great house beat passionately all year-round – the arteries of the organ crocheted from yards and yards of skin-clinging shirts and blouses. A cross-draught brought some reprieve, but open doors attracted vermin. Thomas recalled that several deliveries should've been brought in today during his absence, so the back door had probably been kept wide open for hours.

Thomas glanced at the letters that had been brought to his desk. As he sat down and sliced the most weathered specimen open with his recently sharpened letter knife, a confident knock sounded from his door.

It was Mrs. Parker. She placed wordlessly a small portion of ice cream and strawberries on the edge of his desk. Thomas's verbal gratitude for Mrs. Parker’s clairvoyance died on his lips when he caught sign of her leering expression.

"If Jimmy wasn't sweet enough on ya today, this'll make up for it. Oh, Mr. Barrow, you should've seen how Master George and his friend lapped it up and called it the best ice cream they’d ever tasted!"

She dropped her voice to a stage whisper and leaned a bit closer to her wary superior, the pads of her fingers touching the edge of his desk. “I know me stuff is good, but that other boy had ‘is eyes on sumtin’ else, I tell ya, Mr. Barrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fic since 2005. After a three month binge of Thomas Barrow fanfic I made a loose New Year’s resolution to write and post something. I'm a bit surprised how this turned out, since it has very little in common with the text I initially planned. :D


End file.
